During my husband’s funeral, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: “I’m alive. Beware of the children.” At first, I assumed it was some cruel prank.

They convinced him to take the insurance. It was their plan. A trap.

Still, I resisted believing they could kill their own father… until the message guided me to the workshop.

There were no signs of an explosion. Nothing damaged. Everything intact.

On his desk lay a note dated three days before his d3ath:

“Charles insists I need more insurance. Something feels wrong.”

Beside it, a sealed letter addressed to me.

My dearest Margot,
If you’re reading this, something has happened to me. Charles and Henry are too focused on our money. Charles warned me today that “at my age” an accident could be fatal. It felt like a threat. If I die, do not trust them. Not even our sons.
—Ernest

That evening, Charles came to visit, pretending to care.

“Mom, you’ll get two hundred thousand dollars from the insurance.”

“How do you know the exact amount?” I asked quietly.

He faltered. Lied again. Then began pushing the idea that they should “manage” my money—that I should move into a care facility.

They wanted everything. Even after k*lling him.

The next message brought everything into focus:

This is Steven Callahan, private investigator. Ernest hired me three weeks before he di:ed. He was poisoned with methanol. Come meet me tomorrow. I have proof. Continue reading…